


His Own Heart Laughed

by Lono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Christmas Carol, Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/pseuds/Lono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused - Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of all the good days of the year, Christmas Eve

**Chapter One: Of All the Good Days of the Year, Christmas Eve**

* * *

 Moriarty was dead, to begin with.

Sherlock Holmes had no question whatever about that. He’d been on that rooftop, after all. The amount of blood, brain matter, and skull fragmentation that had issued from his nemesis was not adequate to sustain life. Journalists and anchors alike had been abuzz with nothing but the news of “Richard Brook’s” death and the strange events surrounding it. 

Before Moriarty’s body was cremated, Mycroft Holmes positively identified it. He was seconded by bevy of other government officials who had been party to the lengthy interrogations of the criminal when he’d been in their custody.

Molly Hooper was present at his autopsy and witnessed Mike Stamford signing his death certificate. She would have conducted the postmortem herself, but kindly Mike was worried Molly would be traumatized by the task. And though he didn’t voice this concern, he was also probably concerned that there might be a conflict of interest, considering her friendship with Sherlock Holmes. Still, as she worked on another autopsy, she saw the body of Jim lying on the metal slab next to her, and had no doubt that the brown eyes and manic smile she was working hard to avoid belonged to the insane man who had so easily manipulated her all those months ago.

 It is important to remember that James Moriarty was dead as doornail, or there will be no wonder to the story I am about to tell you.

 Sherlock was—for all intents and purposes—dead, too. News reports of Moriarty’s death it never neglected to mention the figurative and literal falls of Sherlock Holmes. Unlike the very dead Moriarty, however, Sherlock was still very much alive; robust, even. A self-imposed fake death had done little to change the personality of the man.  Sure, he was a slightly humbler, sadder, raging genius, but the raging genius aspect was nothing different from before his fall.

Since that day in early June, Sherlock had focused his efforts on eliminating James Moriarty’s web of cohorts and underlings (with a little help--more than a little--from Mycroft and his minons). While this had required some international travel, he found himself spending a surprising amount of time in London. He had smirked to himself dryly when it occurred to him that James Moriarty may have actually put too many of his eggs in one basket.

 Whatever the case, while in London, it was easiest for Sherlock to hole up in Molly Hooper’s flat. She was, after all, no social butterfly. He trusted her with his life, literally, and knew that he wouldn’t be at great risk of discovery. Since a lot of his work was electronic, all Sherlock really needed was a computer, internet, and a setee that he could fling himself onto dramatically whenever the mood struck him.

Luckily, Molly had all three.

 While their relationship improved after she helped him fake his death, Sherlock’s default personality mode was still very much a challenge _._ As ever, he ran a bit hot and cold with her. While there was something _different_ about Molly that he found himself thinking about with uncomfortable frequency as he lay on her lumpy sofa at night, he had decided it was irrelevant and distracting, something best shoved aside. 

 And so he continued on his quest, only sometimes mindful of trying to be a courteous houseguest. Usually, he was crabby, abrupt, and quite rude.

In other words, he was Sherlock.

* * *

Once upon a time—on Christmas Eve, no less—Sherlock Holmes sat in Molly Hooper’s small lounge, doing a fancy bit of hacking on her laptop computer. He was vaguely aware of Molly rustling around in the kitchen, but he was too busy trying to complete an algorithm to pay her much mind. In kind, she had been quiet the whole day and had hardly spoken to him.

 That was one thing he had come to appreciate about Molly. While she had become far more assertive and confident in the six months that he’d been using her flat as his command center, she was still the kind, patient woman she’d always been. Though she was never cowed anymore, she was courteous. Well, except in matters concerning her infernal cat, who was currently draped across Sherlock’s forearms as the latter tried to type. There, Molly had a bit of a blind spot, and Sherlock could never convince her that she should address the feline’s obvious personality flaws. But he was coming to realize he might have plenty of time to help her reach this epiphany; he felt like the work required to dismantle Moriarty’s mousetrap would never end.

 As he tried jostling the cat off of his wrists, Molly emerged from her small kitchen. She was a mess.  She wore an apron that had vestiges of various baking ingredients smeared across it, and there was a smudge of either cocaine or confectioner’s sugar on her cheek.  

She looked strangely endearing.

 It was only as he glanced at her that Sherlock noticed the definite scent of warm biscuits in the air. His stomach gave a plaintive groan and he actually felt his nose twitching as he suddenly registered that, yes, he would like some food. But it was important to be subtle. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. While he was the master of ennui, he still had to practice his art. So, he casually turned his full attention on Molly, taking another subtle sniff of the intoxicating aroma that had followed her out of the kitchen.

 “What’s the racket in the kitchen about, Molly?” he asked, carefully contorting his cat-pinned hands to save his work on the computer.

Molly arched an eyebrow, but decided to humor him.  “I’m not sure if there is one specific ‘racket’ you’re referring to, but I’ve been in there doing some holiday baking. Not exactly quiet work.”

This gave Sherlock pause. He worked his cursor to hover over the timestamp on the computer screen, suddenly unsure of the day. “It’s the twenty-fourth of December,” he said, dumbly, in his opinion.

“That it is. I was feeling festive and decided to make a batch of Linzer biscuits. I was actually wondering if you could tell me where the currant jam is? I need it for the filling.”

“I finished the jar yesterday. Why are you feeling festive?” He felt his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

 Molly stared back at Sherlock, a perplexed look of her own crossing her face. “Why _wouldn’t_ I feel festive? Tomorrow’s Christmas, after all.”

Sherlock knew, of course, that Molly participated in the seasonal tripe that seemed to plague a good portion of the population. She’d been to his old Baker Street flat once for one such party.  But he was having a hard time reconciling the way his life was effectively on pause while she continued to observe the calendar and all of those holidays that were printed in the little date squares.

Moreover, he was confused as to why she would _want_ to.

“Molly, you have always said that your faith is in science. That you’re an atheist, or at least an agnostic. Why do you participate in a day that, while it was once a pagan holiday, is now considered a Christian one and a materialistic, commercial one at that?”

Blinking at him, Molly remained quiet for several seconds before she finally spoke. “Just because I don’t believe in God doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the holiday. I love the anticipation. Not just for gifts, though those can be nice, of course. It’s a lovely celebration. It would be nice if I believed the first Christmas story to be true, but I don’t think it’s necessary to believe in order to find beauty in a holiday that is about family and goodness.”

There had been a few times in his thirty-some years that Sherlock Holmes had surprised even himself with a bit of forethought before he said something “a bit not good,” to quote his best friend.

This was not one of those times.

“But… you don’t have any family. So why do you care?”

The change in Molly was palpable, even before he finished that final, damning word. He had noted that she had grown quieter in the past few days, but he hadn’t tried to deduce _why_ and now he wished he had.

 Her hands, which she’d been absently rubbing together while they talked, dropped heavily to her sides. She was quiet for a moment before she finally started speaking, her eyes getting a glassy sheen that she desperately tried to disguise by looking down as she untied her apron.“I… I guess that isn’t important. That is to say, I still like it. My reasons are my own. I have to do a few things in my room. I’ll talk to you later.”

 With that, she turned and headed down the hall, her cat leaping off of Sherlock’s lap to follow her. The softly closing bedroom door might has well have been slammed shut, since its noise carried reverberated through suddenly quiet flat.

 Sherlock closed the laptop and set it on the low table in front of the sofa. Pulling his feet up onto the couch, he lay back, steepling his fingers under his chin.

 He knew he owed Molly an apology. He had never been good at issuing them, though. So that would take some thought and planning. But more than the contrition he felt, his thoughts were mostly occupied with the looped image of just how devastated Molly had looked as soon as the words left his mouth.

 And for the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t figure why it bothered him so much.

* * *

He came out of his meditative state a couple of hours later when he heard Molly’s door buzzer sounding. No sounds or movement came from Molly’s room, but Sherlock was certain the chime had gone off. Curious that someone would be calling on his flatmate at—glancing at his watch—eleven o’clock at night, he wandered over to the little video screen/intercom that served as an electric doorman for the building’s front entry.

There was nothing particularly special about the door buzzer—a visitor entered the building that housed eight flats and came to a second, locked door. If the person did not have a key, he would simply press a button that corresponded with his destination flat. Assuming the tenant was home, the person in the flat could screen who was pushing the buzzer, then push a button that temporarily released the lock, allowing the visitor to enter. It seemed to function well enough (he’d been in buildings where the landlords had let such devices fall into disrepair), though sometimes the buzzer interrupted his deep bouts of concentration. Such as now.

Expecting to see a drunken neighbor or a confused food delivery person, Sherlock did not properly brace himself for what met him when he looked at the intercom’s video feed.

James Moriarty.

His face filled the screen for just a moment. Sherlock reeled back nearly to the other side of the room, but when he threw himself back to the screen, it was black. He frantically pulled up the video feed again, but all that the screen showed was an empty foyer, the lights of cars passing out on the street fractured in the poor video resolution.

Taking no time to puzzle it out any further, Sherlock grabbed the pistol that he’d stashed under the sofa (Molly hated guns and her cat couldn’t paw that far under the couch) and threw open the flat’s front door.

An empty, quiet hallway greeted him. He quickly looked both ways before rushing through the hall and running down the stairs to the ground floor. He passed no one on the way, nor did he hear any noise from above. The foyer looked much as it had when he’d rechecked the video feed: empty and silent.

Feeling frantic (an unusual feeling for him), Sherlock ran back up the stairs to Molly’s flat, suddenly afraid as it dawned on him that he’d left her alone in his rush. He could have just fallen into a trap. He burst through her bedroom door, wild-eyed, expecting to see Jim Moriarty standing over her, or worse. Instead, all he saw was her huddled form in the middle of her bed and the gleam of the cat’s eyes as they caught the light from the hallway.  The only sounds Sherlock could detect were Molly’s quiet, even breathing and the thudding of his own heart.

Not caring if he woke her, he flicked on the overhead light. The only reaction Molly gave to this was a mumbled complaint before she rolled onto her stomach, burrowing further into her blankets.  She didn’t even stir as Sherlock prowled around her room, looking behind her curtains, peering in her closet, and (though he felt a bit foolish doing so) crawling around on his hands and knees to check under her bed.

Once he had thoroughly checked the rest of her flat and then gone to the upper floors of the building, Sherlock once returned to the ground floor, but found it unchanged. He could only assume that had had somehow dreamt the whole ordeal.

Anything else was impossible. Moriarty was dead.

Returning to Molly’s lounge, Sherlock once again took up his spot on her settee. Feeling too restless to even think of resting or sleeping, he reached for Molly’s computer, intending to continue with his work from earlier that evening. He had barely begun typing when a rustling noise reached him. He looked up, ready to scold the cat for getting into something he oughtn’t, but instead felt the words dry up on his tongue.

Sitting across from him in a hideous armchair that Sherlock usually avoided even dignifying with a glance, sat James Moriarty, idly peeling an apple with a knife.

But… not really. This Moriarty was decidedly less… _solid_ than the Moriarty Sherlock had known. In fact, he could see the ugly puce and green plaid of the chair’s upholstery right through Jim’s torso, legs, and head.

Though he could remember on one hand the times he had felt genuinely gobsmacked, this took the cake. Sherlock was a man of science. A man of logic. Of philosophical reasoning. There was no earthly explanation as to why or, more importantly, _how_ James Moriarty was sitting there, let alone a ghostly James Moriarty.

Deciding this must be some vestigial reaction to his previous drug use (more than a decade ago, but that was just a detail), Sherlock rallied himself enough to speak, to talk himself through this episode.

“If you mean to scare me, I know you’re not real, so you’ve failed. You might as well flit away now.”

The ghostly Moriarty lifted his eyes from the apple, a smirk twisting his mouth. “Oh, my dear, I’m afraid I’m very much real. What reason would you have to hallucinate me?”

“You aren’t real. You’re likely a specter of an exhausted brain; a daydream. Because trying to foil you, even in death, is my only waking thought. Really, there’s more of aggravation than of grave about you. I’m not some shill, so I won’t be buying into it. Good evening.”

On this pronouncement, Sherlock looked down to the computer and began typing furiously. When he hazarded to glance back up, Moriarty was gone. Sadly, his respite was short-lived, as, in the blink of an eye, Moriarty rematerialized, this time seated directly beside him.

Slamming the laptop shut, Sherlock returned his full attention to the ghostly figure, which seemed to be having trouble remaining on the sofa and not sinking through the cushions and settee frame. “James Moriarty died six months ago. I was with him when it happened. Whatever _this_ is,” he waved his hand with a wild flourish to indicate all of Moriarty, “is not that man. There was no way to fake those injuries.”

Moriarty rolled his eyes theatrically before replying. “Of course I’m dead, Stupid. I was good, but I was never so good as to remove the back of my skull and my brain temporarily.”

“Then you admit that you’re not real. Glad we’re in accord. You can leave now.”

The ghost had the audacity to chuckle at Sherlock. “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m not real,” and off Sherlock’s sardonic expression, “Oh, don’t give me that look. Even though you’ve never encountered something you can’t explain, that doesn’t mean that everything in the world has an explanation. Why don’t you ask me why I’m here?”

“Make me.”

Moriarty actually sighed. “Don’t be such a damn child. But I’ll just tell you. I’m here for your heart. The one I promised to burn out of you? Turns out if you want any kind of eternal rest or whatever rot it is, you have to spend your time alive walking amid humans, or you’ll just be forced to do so after death, instead.”

As he spoke, Moriarty began fidgeting with the cuff of his suit’s sleeve. What Sherlock had failed to notice in his earlier shock and denial suddenly struck him.

“Hang on… is that a _Debenhams_ suit?!”

Sherlock said “Debenhams” the same way someone else might say “Contagious Leper’s”.

Though he looked momentarily outraged that Sherlock had noticed, the ghost shrugged and explained, “These are the clothes I sewed in life, thread by thread, cheap button by cheap button. Each synthetic fiber weighs me down here in my eternal damnation. That is why I have appeared before you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“To save me from spending my eternal days in a non-bespoke suit? I think the fact that I’m not a mass-murdering psychopath will at _least_ rank me something by Brooks Brothers.”

“No, you’re completely missing the point, as usual. You wear such a suit yourself because you, too, could go to the grave with crippling regret. While you made some headway this year as far as upping your thread count, you’ve backslid. You’ve replaced one potential regret with another.”

Sherlock tried to puzzle this out, but could only draw a blank. “And how do you propose to school me in the error of my ways? You hate me, so why would I have any reason to trust you?”

“Well, since you don’t even believe any of this is real, what have you got to lose? Regarding your first question, I won’t be doing any of the schooling. Consider me the benevolent headmaster.

“I’m only here to tell you that you have an opportunity to find the happiness, banal as it is, that I never had. But the proviso is that you only have three nights to accomplish it. So, good luck!”

On this pronouncement, he started to dematerialize.

“Wait!” Sherlock interjected, “How am I a supposed to accomplish this completely imaginary, hallucinated task?”

Moriarty returned to his full (or full for a ghost) corporeality. “Oh, did I not mention? That was clumsy of me. You will be visited by three spirits in three nights. They will show you your folly. It will be up to you whether or not you change. I’m thinking you will, because—as I’ve mentioned before—you’re really quite ordinary.”

He grabbed Sherlock’s mobile and quickly pulled up the alarm clock application. He continued speaking as he programmed something in.

“After this, I really must dash. Expect the first spirit when the iPhone chimes one.” With a theatric press of the ‘Save’ button, he smiled maniacally at Sherlock and exclaimed, “Bye!”

And with that, Jim Moriarty disappeared.

The mobile dropped into Sherlock’s lap. He quickly scooped it up, expecting it to prove once and for all that the past fifteen minutes had not occurred. Sadly, he was disappointed. There, on the mobile’s screen, was an alarm set for 1:00 AM, 25 December. The ringtone Moriarty had selected was one that Sherlock hadn’t previously had in his phone’s library, a “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” by a group called Metallica.

He gazed at the phone for a moment before rolling his eyes and deleting the alarm.

“Psh,” Sherlock said to no one, “Rubbish!”

But even as he spoke, he felt his eyes getting heavy. He arranged himself more comfortably on the sofa and sank into a dreamless sleep.

He was startled awake not long after to the tinny clashing of drums and guitars, as the alarm on his phone sounded loudly.

Suddenly, a blinding white light filled Molly Hooper’s small lounge.


	2. The Past

The light seemed not to come from any one point. Instead, it permeated from every corner, wall, and window in the room. Sherlock threw his arm over his eyes, as just closing them was not enough to diminish the brightness.

After several moments of his phone blaring its alarm, all noise suddenly cut off. Sherlock hazarded to peek through the crook of his elbow and was relieved to see the light had dimmed considerably. In its stead, though, surrounded by a soft corona of white, was a boy who couldn’t have been older than twelve. He stood with a disinterested look on his oh-so-familiar face.

It was his shoes, though, that Sherlock fixated on. Those shoes that had ended up playing not one, but two significant roles in his cases over the years. The white sneakers looked the same as they had two years previously when Jim Moriarty placed them ceremonially on the floor of 221C Baker Street. But now they were on a glowing set of feet

“Carl Powers?” Sherlock asked, “Are you the ‘spirit’ who is going to save my immortal soul or whatever the goal of this tedious exercise is?”

Carl shrugged a bit sullenly, digging in his pocket and fishing something out. “I guess. Can we get going?”

Nonplussed, Sherlock stared at the schoolboy. “Go… where?”

The spirit took his time unwrapping a bright pink block of gum, shoving it in his mouth and giving it several introductory chomps before he deigned to reply. “Out there,” and he pointed through the lounge window.

The light from the small table lamp and the soft glow emanating from Carl made it impossible to see anything but black beyond their faint reflections in the glass.

Sherlock was really quite proud that he remained patient, breathing deeply before saying, “Yes, I gathered that, but _where_ out there?”

Carl’s eye roll was impressive, to say the least. “If you’d stop talking and just come with me, you’d find out. Gor, you’re going to be an exhausting one, I can already tell.”

Sherlock thought this was pretty rich, coming from someone who was currently trying to blow a bubble roughly the size of his own head with his fruity smelling gum. And how a ghost’s gum could even emit a scent was something Sherlock would have to puzzle out later.

Deciding he had apparently turned over a new leaf in the patience department, Sherlock stood and walked to the set of hooks hanging by Molly’s front door. Donning the banged up leather jacket he’d taken to wearing, he reached for the doorknob when a throat clearing caught his attention.

Carl was ready to go, too. Unfortunately, he was standing at the now-open window, clambering up on to the sill. He accomplished this all while staring expectantly at the older man, and without popping that blasted bubble.

“I’ve had enough long drops to last me, thanks,” Sherlock said. “I’ll take the stairs.”

The bubble popped loudly. Carl set about licking up all of the gum that had stuck to a wide perimeter around his mouth. “Just take my hand and you’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“I could point out that I have no reason to trust you, since this the first time we’ve actually met. Instead I will just remind myself with frequency and alacrity that none of this is real. So lead on, Carl.”

The instant Sherlock placed his hand in Carl’s, he felt like he _was_ falling, quite a long way and at a great speed. He only hoped he survived the impact when he landed. If he landed, as he was not seeing any bottom to this drop.

“I hope this hallucination doesn’t result in me harming myself,” Sherlock shouted over the wind, which seemed to be a dull roar all around them as they fell.

Carl only rolled his eyes again.

And then, just as suddenly as the two started their fall, they stopped. Sherlock noted he was still in the same midstride position that he’d been in when he’d reached for the ghost’s hand  in Molly’s flat.

They most certainly were not in her flat anymore, though. Instead, they were in a very familiar sitting room. One Sherlock hadn’t been in in many, many years.

Suddenly nervous, he spun round to look accusingly at Carl, but the ghost was too busy playing on a Gameboy to notice the recriminating expression on Sherlock’s face.

Before Sherlock could say anything, the door to the room opened, and a lovely woman strode in. She was in her forties, but her hair was still a dark, mink brown with only a few shots of silver noticeable in the light coming from a warm fireplace in the room.

Outside, a quiet snow fell, and the darkening sky cast a blue hue on the fields and hedgerows that made up the landscape beyond the house.

Already, Sherlock knew what day this was. He still spent considerable swaths of time trying to delete it, to no avail.

“Mother…” Sherlock began, surprised that the woman had yet to acknowledge the two strangers standing in her sitting room.

“She can’t hear you,” Carl muttered, grimacing at something on his Gameboy screen, “Or see you. We’re like shadows, or not even that because she’d probably freak out if she saw disembodied human shadows moving about. We’re like _ghosts,_ ” (at this Carl gave an amused snort at his own wittiness).

Sherlock was too busy watching his mother moving about the room (even walking through him once, which was disconcerting, to say the least) to defend her—she was far too sophisticated to “freak out.”

He felt a low level of dread as the woman finally spoke.

“Boys, Sig, let’s get started,” she called out to the house at large.

The sounds of feet hurrying down stairs thundered over their heads and down into the foyer, and two young boys soon entered the room. Following close on their heels was a man to whom Sherlock had not spoken in fifteen years.

Just the sight of Siger Holmes was enough to make Sherlock feel like he was once again his twelve-year-old self, the self who was at the moment pulling out his violin, quietly resining his bow as he listened to his mother and older brother talk.

Sherlock’s father sat down in one of the two armchairs in front of the hearth, quirking an impatient brow at his family. _Dear old Dad, always in a hurry_ , Sherlock thought bitterly to himself. Siger and Sherlock had had an argument earlier that afternoon that ended with Sherlock storming off, and clearly Siger was not in the mood to spend much more time in his family’s company.

His father finally spoke, drawing the eyes of the others in the room back to him.

“My petal, shall we begin? I’m trying to get some work done before our guests arrive.”

Sherlock’s mother immediately sat in the other chair and looked expectantly at the young Mycroft and Sherlock.

“What would you like to hear, Mummy?” The then-eighteen-year-old Mycroft queried.

He sat down at an impressive piano, and Sherlock’s younger self walked over to stand in front of it, violin already poised on his shoulder as they watched Violet Holmes ponder Mycroft’s question.

“Hmm, I am feeling sentimental. Let’s hear Vivaldi’s ‘L’Inverno.’“

The boys glanced at each other, smirking over the fact that they’d practiced only that piece. Mycroft counted aloud, and Sherlock began playing. The piece was easy enough to perform somewhat mindlessly, particularly for two boys who’d been placed in music lessons at a very young age.

It had long been a family tradition for the boys to perform a miniature recital for their parents on Christmas day. This year was no different than the ones before. But Sherlock knew it was very, very different from all years to come.

To their mother’s and father’s bafflement, the brothers had surpassed any and all of their schoolmates’ intelligence, both ranking at genius levels, and they often made a game of deducing what their parents would say or do before the older Holmes and even made up their own minds. While Siger and Violet Vernet Holmes were plenty smart, they often looked at Mycroft and Sherlock and wondered, “Where did you two _come from_?”

But they’d been raised in an affectionate, if somewhat demanding household. Their father had always been a bit more distant than their rather effusive mother, but he’d still been proud of his sons and their accomplishments even at such a young age.

Which was why his rather impatient sigh mid-movement distracted twelve-year-old Sherlock enough that he stopped playing.

“Is there a problem, Father?”

“Nothing, my boy. Carry on. I’m just distracted with work.”

The younger Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he watched his mother reach over and give his father’s hand a comforting pat. Even has Mycroft tried to start up where they’d so unceremoniously left off, his little brother seemed to run out of his own patience.

“Really, Father, work? I didn’t realize writing letters to another woman, telling her that you’re ready to leave us and run off with her was a paid past-time these days. I guess they’ve been teaching me all of the wrong things at school.”

Silence.

Sherlock’s mother’s smile froze on her face. She was used to the somewhat tactless personality of her younger son, but this was above and beyond anything he’d ever spouted before.

“Siger,” Violet turned to her husband, who was staring impassively at Sherlock, “What’s he talking about?”

Shaking himself out of whatever stupor he’d been thrown into, Siger managed a weak smile. “I-I’m not sure, my dear. You know how fanciful Sherlock can be, and he’s already mad at me. Please, don’t believe a word he’s saying.”

Fanciful was certainly not an adjective ever used to describe Sherlock before this moment, but his mother clearly was hoping she could just nod along with whatever his father said.

Mycroft spoke quickly, “Then that’s settled. Sherlock, maybe we should cut our performance short today?”

Sherlock wanted to shout out to his younger self to take the social cues being offered to him and quit talking. Clearly he had sewn the seeds of doubt in Violet Holmes’ mind. Couldn’t he be satisfied that she was beginning to know; trust that she would eventually make a damning discovery on her own?

Couldn’t he have tried for some _kindness_ to his mother?

But the boy was not to be deterred.

“Oh, so I have just imagined the hushed phone conversations, the long business dinners that you are always attending, is that is it, Father? Maybe I’m just imagining the fact that today you reek of hotel soap, even though the only ‘trip’ you’ve taken was that two-hour jaunt with the dogs. Whom I found still in their kennels down in the stables, by the way, while you were gone. Then there’s the fact that your most recent credit card statements show several purchases at some rather high end jewelry stores, yet the only gifts you gave Mummy today were some new trousers and jumper sets. She’s starting to show her age, so it must be time for a newer model. But yes, you’re right. I'm just being fanciful.”

He set his violin and bow down on the piano with a defiant snap. But the young boy could even see himself that this time he’d gone too far. In his spite over his father’s behavior that night, he had, with one deft blow, shattered his mother’s comfortable cocoon. As he’d spoken, Sherlock had been sure what he was saying was for the best—he’d showed his father that he wasn’t duping anyone and at the same time rescued his mother from a life of ignorant bliss.

“Oh, Sherlock.” The look she gave him was eloquent in its misery.  The younger Sherlock seemed to come back to himself only then, blinking as he watched his mother stand and quietly leave the room.

“Look what you’ve done!” his father snarled as he, too, sprang up and ran after Sherlock’s mother.

Mycroft sat contemplatively at the piano, neither moving to leave his spot, nor to play anything, though his long fingers stroked the keys.  He seemed to debate with himself before he finally spoke to his brother.

“That could have been handled better. She’d have figured it out in her own time, and not as coldly as the way you just put it.”

“You knew?” He wheeled around to look at Mycroft accusingly.

“Sherlock, we may outsmart our parents on several levels, but that doesn’t mean we are their keepers. 

The younger boy jerked himself back to stare impassively at the fire.

“She deserved to know.”

“Yes, but she didn’t deserve to be treated the way you just treated her. For all our father’s faults, she loves him.”

The flames danced and spat in the hearth. Shouted voices echoed through the house.

“Then she’s a fool.”

Sherlock watched as his younger self continued to stare at the fire and Mycroft stood, making his own silent exit.

“That was when you decided once and for all never to waste your time on love, sentiment and affection.”

Sherlock started, looking down to Carl, whom he’d all but forgotten. The spirit wasn’t looking at him, but instead continued to watch the young boy who remained still as he watched the fire.

“I was coming slowly to the realization that nothing good could ever come of those things, but yes, that was the final nail in the coffin.”

Carl finally turned to look at the elder Sherlock. “And your mother, where is she now?”

“She lives over in Lille. She married local man there close to ten years ago.”

“And even though she had her heart broken by Siger Holmes, is she happy now?”

“Yes. Or she says she is.”

Carl spared one more glance at the lonely boy before holding out his hand to his adult counterpart.

“Come. We still have a lot to see.” 

* * *

Sherlock decided he _really_ disliked Carl’s method of travel. Once the strange vertigo ceased, he turned an accusing eye on the ghost but Carl was too busy taking in their surroundings to notice. Curiosity got the better of Sherlock and he peered around, too.

It was a clean but slightly shabby lounge, occupied by a large settee, a couple of smaller chairs, bookshelves, and a cheerfully twinkling tree in the corner. A few vestiges of excitedly torn wrapping paper lingered around the tree, telling Sherlock that it was once again Christmas day, though he couldn’t place what year.

Just as he was about to point out that he had no idea whose sitting room they currently occupied, so what point could Carl have in showing him this, he noticed a little girl kneeling at a low table in front of the sofa. She was frowning down at a book, clearly not liking whatever it was she was reading.

Sherlock wandered around to look over her shoulder, still marveling at this strange invisibility. She was reading a book called _Fish_ , and as far as he could see, it just seemed to have pictures and descriptions of various aquaria. Nothing too offensive, there.

The little girl looked up from the book as a balding man entered the room, gingerly carrying two mugs of cocoa. He carefully set one down in front of the girl before seating himself on the sofa.

“Now be sure to blow on that, Molly-Doll. It’s quite hot and you don’t want a burnt tongue.”

Of course, this was Molly Hooper. Sherlock was surprised he’d had to be told. The thick, brown hair on her head was pulled back into plaited pigtails. It was the exact same shade as the little girl’s adult version, who’d never been the type to go for dyes or highlights. But even if the hair hadn’t confirmed it, he felt he should have known from her brown eyes. She was little for her age even then, but those eyes of hers nearly swallowed the rest of her face.

This version of Molly couldn’t have been more than six-years-old, and Sherlock was surprised to find that he was genuinely curious to see what she’d been like as a child.

“Daddy,” the little girl spoke for the fist time, still looking with some consternation down on her book. “this book you gave me today. It says in here that a molly is a fish. A really ugly fish. Was I named for a _fish_?”

Solemnly, he replied, “Yes. You finally know my secret. I was in a pet store when your mummy told me we were going to have you. I decided it would be good luck to name you after the first fish I saw. You’re lucky the molly was the one, because you came _this_ close to being called ‘Guppy.’”

At her look of abject horror, Molly’s father gave a hearty laugh, but stopped when he saw the glare his young daughter was shooting his way. “Surely I’ve told you why we called you ‘Molly?’”

She shook her head.

He held out his arms and she clambered up onto his lap.

“Your mummy wanted a little girl more than anything. She said she would be happy with a boy, and she really would have been. But she wasn’t very good at hiding the fact that a baby girl was what she _decided_ she was going to have. When we were out in the shops, I’d see her looking at all the baby clothes, even though we weren’t nearly ready to start buying them, and more often than not she could be found looking at little dresses and frilly pink things.

“Then your mum got sick, and we found out you were going to come earlier than we’d expected. She knew she was ill, but that was nothing compared to how excited she was that we were about to meet you. And just before you were born, she turned to me, she smiled, and said, ’Molly. Her name is Molly.’

“And then your cries filled the room, and I was holding you in my arms, and you were our perfect Molly. And even though we lost your mummy that night, she was never anything but happy. She held you and kissed you, and she even sang you a lullaby.” He rested his cheek against his daughter’s soft hair and murmured, “I know it’s hard to see all of your schoolmates with mums of their own, but I want you to know that your mummy loved you enough for an entire lifetime in that short time you two had together.”

The little girl sat quietly in her father’s lap, weaving her small fingers through his much larger ones.

“Happy Christmas, Daddy.”

“Happy Christmas, my sweet girl.”

Sherlock could only look on, for some reason feeling an inevitable helplessness that he couldn’t quite identify.  He started when Carl spoke for the first time.

“He was a hard-working man; he only had GSCE levels, but he worked two jobs so that he could send his daughter to university. His coworkers always commented that it was rare to see a parent as proud of his child as Peter Hooper was of Molly. She could have grown up to be an over-coddled princess, but as you well know, she has never been anything but fastidious, bright, and kind, and she learned that from her father.”

Sherlock could only nod, for some reason not trusting his voice.

“Let’s go. We have another Christmas with these two to visit.”

* * *

The sterile smell of a hospital was one that Sherlock usually found comforting (or as comforting as Sherlock Holmes found anything). But as he looked around at a white hallway that some hospital staff had tried to make festive with tinsel and paper snowflakes, he couldn’t find that same groundedness that he usually felt when he was in his milieu. Perhaps it was because he had a feeling of premonition over what he was about to see.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see an adult Molly walking down the hallway. Sherlock initially thought that this Molly was quite close in age to her real-life counterpart, but he then realized that she was twenty-years-old at most, and the aging was a result of her looking rather haggard. Dark purple rings of exhaustion bruised the skin under her eyes, and her complexion had a grey, ashy pallor to it. 

Just as she reached Sherlock, she turned into the room whose door he’d been standing in front of.  Carl followed her with Sherlock bringing up the tail end.

The room the entered was a standard NHS hospital room, but all of its beds were empty, save for one.

Peter Hooper was a much-changed man from the last memory. Where he’d previously been robust and hearty, a gaunt, sickly figure took his place.  But he still beamed at Molly as she pulled a chair up to his bedside.

“Hello, Sweetheart. Did you get something to eat?”

“Yes, Dad. They had a whole Christmas spread down in the cafeteria.”

Sherlock could tell just by looking at her that she had only pushed whatever food she’d gotten around on her plate before throwing it out uneaten.

“Are you sure you couldn’t eat something yourself?” she asked

Molly’s father shook his head, his breath wheezing  a bit at the movement.

“I’m really not hungry. Gasping for a some ice chips, though. I hate to ask since you’ve only just sat down, but do you think you could get some for me?”

“Of course,” she replied, immediately standing and rushing out of the room.

And the change in Peter Hooper was instant.  Where a happy smile had been on his face before, a pained look took over his face.

While Sherlock was not given to flights of fancy, he could have sworn that that expression was not the result of physical pain, but rather of acute sadness.

It was just as Molly had said. And that sadness was almost too raw for Sherlock to see. Because he _knew_ that sad look on Peter’s face was not borne of self-pity, but rather for the daughter he was going to leave behind. Alone.

Peter fiddled with the blankets that covered him, the frown never wavering.

Sherlock glanced to the window that looked out into the hallway. There, framed by red, glittery tinsel, stood Molly, a cup clutched in her hand as she stared in at her father. She seemed to gather a rallying breath of air, and then she walked back to the door. By the time she reached its frame, her father was once again smiling, a look of true happiness just for seeing his daughter.

She rolled a tray over to his bedside and set the cup down easily within his reach before returning to her own hard, plastic chair.

“What would you like to do, Dad? Shall I read to you? I brought some of those awful spy novels you’re so fond of. Or we could watch some telly. There’s bound to be something cheesy and Christmassy on.”

But even as she spoke, her father was shaking his head.

“I’d rather just talk, if that’s alright. Have you gotten the results for your winter exams yet?”

“Yes,” she responded, a pleased flush warming her cheeks slightly, “top marks on them all.”

“Well, of course you got top marks. What were you expecting? You worked hard enough for them, anything else would have been ridiculous. That busy brain of yours worries too much.”

Molly smiled faintly, taking Peter’s hand.

“So says the man who raised me that way.”

“Ha! I merely encouraged you. How could I know you were a born over-achiever?”

“As they say, Dad, it takes one to know one.”

They smiled warmly at each other, Molly running her thumb back and forth over her father’s fingers.

Still smiling, but more gently, Peter turned his hands around so that his fingers were laced with his daughter’s, he spoke again. “My darling, I think I am probably going to go tonight.”

Molly froze, then opened her mouth—whether to deny the inevitable or to beg, Sherlock couldn’t tell. But her father continued before she could speak.

“No, no, listen to me, please. I want you to know that I am so proud of you, and I will always be proud of you. And I need to ask something of you. You and I are all each other has had for twenty years now. I know it was lonely sometimes with just your old dad for company. But what makes you beautiful, my Molly, is that your heart is so big. And while I imagine you’re in for some lonelier times once I’m gone, I only ask that someday you find someone to love. Who loves you. Because you deserve all the love in the world.”

Peter cleared his throat as he looked at his silently weeping daughter.

“I don’t have much reason to be sad. I’ve had such a wonderful life, and I got to see you grow into the smart, beautiful woman that you are. But I have sometimes had the worry that you have a tendency to put your own life on hold to care for me, even before I got sick. And I can only feel relief that maybe this will be a turning point for you.

“You’re brave and strong, and _so_ good And anyone who doesn’t realize this isn’t worth your time. So please promise me that you will let your real life begin soon, that you’ll be happy.”

Molly was not able to contain the sobbing gasps of air as she wept, as she clutched her father’s hand, her knuckles white. “I could be all of those things so much more easily if I had you, Dad. Please, please, don’t leave me.”

“But that’s my point. I won’t be leaving you, if you can keep that promise. I’ll be that pride you feel for yourself for everything you accomplish, and I’ll be that warmth you feel when you fall in love and are happy. That’s how I mean to stay with you forever.”

Undone, Molly simply lowered her forehead to rest it on the back of Peter’s hand, as her tears continued to fall.

Her father stroked his free hand repeatedly over her hair, tirelessly. 

Finally, Molly’s crying stopped. She took another bracing breath before straightening and giving a watery smile to her father. “Happy Christmas, Daddy.”

“Happy Christmas, my sweet girl.”

They sat quietly for a long time. Eventually, Peter drifted off into an exhausted sleep, his daughter’s hand still in his. His breath was even and deep only briefly before it slowly began to come less frequently. And then, finally, it stopped all together.

Molly didn’t weep again. She lifted herself out of her chair and sat on her father’s bed, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

Sherlock became aware of activity around him as a doctor and nurses entered the room. Until that moment, he hadn’t even noticed the flat-lining heart monitor that must have alerted them.

Clearly, they had advanced directives from Peter Hooper, as no attempt at resuscitation was made. A time of death was called, and the various machines that surrounded his bed were turned off.

And all the while, Sherlock watched Molly. She looked… empty. It was a keening grief, so palpable for its quietness that he almost couldn’t bear to see it. For all of his ranting about sentiment and emotion, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to go to Molly, to offer her some comfort. He walked around the bed to where she stood. He found himself leaning down to place his lips against her temple. But where his mouth should have made contact in a kiss, it just fell through her as if  she were made of smoke.

“Sherlock,” Carl Powers spoke from the other side of the room, “I think it’s time we left here.”

“Yes. I… yes, let’s go.”

* * *

Sherlock found himself falling back into Molly’s flat. He almost believed he was done with this draining ordeal, but then he saw Carl slouching off down to hall to Molly’s room. It was only then that he noticed that certain details of his surroundings were not quite the same—a bookshelf was a few inches away from where it should be, and the books on it were different, too. Little inconsistencies.

Quickly catching up to Carl, Sherlock curiously followed him into the bedroom. A soft glowing lamp on the bedside table cast dark shadows in the corners of the room.  Standing in front of her chest of drawers, which held a mirror on top, Molly was working a curling iron through her long hair. She looked at herself somewhat critically as she counted under her breath before releasing her latest curl.

This continued for a bit before she turned off the contraption and began pinning her hair up in an fancy style. Finally, she picked up a silver gift bow that she’d glued onto a clip and pinned it into her hair.

There was something too intimate in watching Molly putting makeup on her face, unaware that she had an audience. Sherlock felt like an intruder, wishing he could be anywhere else.

As soon as the blood-red color was slicked over her lips, Molly walked over to her closet, humming to herself. After she pulled a dress— _the_ dress—out, she allowed the dressing gown that she’d been wearing to drop, leaving her clad only in a bra and knickers.

It was… unsettling.

Noticing that Carl was staring avidly, Sherlock reached over and put his hand over the boy’s eyes.

“Hey, I’m older than you!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said.

Carl slapped his hand away, but by that point Molly was already zipping herself into the tight-fitting dress. Once she’d slid her feet into her impossibly high heels, she once again walked over to her mirror.

When Sherlock had seen Molly dressed this way in the flesh, he’d felt that she was like a small girl playing dress-up. Now he only felt deep waves of regret as he watched her frown at her reflection before she took a deep breath, practiced a smile, and then walked out of the room.

Her two shadows followed her into her sitting room, where she was shrugging into a warm coat and gathering up a number of gifts that were scattered with scraps of ribbon and paper. She piled them in a bag and then finally picked up a shiny, red package. She bowed her head as she looked at it, fiddling with the tag, as if she couldn’t decide whether to leave it on or not.

She whispered to herself, “Might as well,” and carefully placed the package on the top of the gift pile. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to her front door, opened it, and flicked off the overhead light as she left.

Sherlock and Carl were left in the light cast by the small Christmas tree she’d placed by her window.

Sherlock knew where she was going. He only wished that he could stop her. He felt a bit disgusted as he recalled how he’d hurt her. As he remembered the events of that night, her dying father’s last request echoed in his head.

He wasn’t good like Molly.

He treated her horribly and said all the wrong things.

He most certainly fell in the ranks of the undeserving that Peter Hooper had mentioned.

And yet, she’d chosen him. _Why_?

“Carl, I… I can’t watch any more. I think I’d like to be done now.”

“Okay.”

A feeling of falling, and Sherlock opened his eyes to find he was lying on Molly’s sofa, alone but for the ticking of the clock.

He closed his eyes again, and remembered far too much.

* * *

He was startled out of his reverie by the mobile’s blaring alarm.


	3. The Present

* * *

This time, Sherlock felt a little more prepared. He even clenched his eyes closed to block out any beams of light. But when he hazarded to open them, he found that there was no light emanating from the spirit of the hour. In fact, she really looked quite normal.

Well, normal for dead person who was still inexplicably walking the earthly plain.

While wearing a garish, pink suit.

Jennifer Wilson had not died easily, something that had stuck with Sherlock long after the mystery of her murder was solved. But even in the throes of what must have been a painful poisoning, she still had the presence of mind to leave a clue, which had aided Sherlock in discovering the identity of her murderer.

Now, she looked rather put together. That familiar business suit of hers looked recently pressed, her hair was styled and unmussed, and her manicure was fresh and undamaged.

Unlike Carl Powers, she didn’t look particularly bothered to be there. She sat in Molly’s ugly, plaid chair, patiently watching Sherlock get his bearings.

Sitting up, Sherlock greeted her. “Hello, Ms. Wilson.”

“Hello, Mr. Holmes."

“I take it you’re here to show me some things?”

“I am.”

He expelled a put-upon huff of air as he stood again, though by this point it was merely for effect; Sherlock really wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. He still wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t having some drawn-out hallucination, but why would he, when he’d had no hallucinogenic for more than a decade? And more importantly, why would all of this deliria focus so much on Molly?

Molly….

Just as he was about to reach the Jennifer, Sherlock drew up short. He looked uncertainly around. “Would you… mind terribly if I did one thing really quickly?”

She tilted her head in assent.

Sherlock crept down the short hallway and eased open the bedroom door. While he’d had proof earlier that night that Molly was not a light sleeper, what he planned to do was not something he actually wanted her to witness. Slowly making his way through the dark room, Sherlock skirted around the bed, stopping just before he accidentally bashed into the bedside table. Crouching down so that his face was even with her sleeping figure, he watched her, quietly listening to her breaths.

Even in the shadows, he could see that the lines of worry that Molly had started to wear daily had smoothed out in sleep, and she better resembled the twenty-year-old girl he’d just seen in that desolate memory. She lay on her side, one hand tightly clutching her duvet up around her shoulders. Sherlock tentatively reached out and placed his hand over hers, noting at how much smaller it was than his.

And then he stilled, unsure of whether or not he should squeeze her hand gently, or just stroke her fingers. Just as quickly as he’d made his decision to go give her some belated sympathy and comfort, self-consciousness got the better of him.

He didn’t _do_ sympathy or comfort.

Working with even more effort to be silent, he eased his fingers back and rose, nearly tiptoeing back out of the room, feeling somehow ashamed that he’d even tried. He only paused a moment to glance back at Molly before he closed her door again with a soft _snick_ and then hurried back into the lounge.

Jennifer Wilson was still standing by the window. She didn’t show any curiosity about what Sherlock had suddenly found so urgent, leading him to believe that she knew full well what he’d been up to in those brief moments that he’d been gone. Nor did her face bear any recrimination. Instead, the corner of her mouth tilted up, and she extended a well-manicured hand out to him.

“Come along, Sherlock. I don’t have much time.”

* * *

Jennifer certainly travelled with a bit more, well, _pizazz_ than Carl Powers. Where Carl had sort of hurled himself and Sherlock from scene to scene, Jennifer Wilson apparently preferred to travel by warm, twinkling lights. They tickled a little, but were otherwise unobjectionable.

Once the twinkles had abated, Sherlock found himself looking at his brother and mother. They were seated at a sprawling table in the formal dining room of his mother’s country chateau outside of Lille, France. The windows of the room were all dark, but candles on the table and fairy lights in garlands hung on the walls and hearth cast a plenty of warm light in the room.

Trying to place _when_ he was, Sherlock peered at his brother. Mycroft certainly didn’t look any younger than he had the last time the two had seen each other, a mere week before. His hair and body were neither thicker nor thinner, and he was wearing a tiepin that he had quite recently received as thanks from some foreign government official.

“Jennifer,” Sherlock addressed the woman beside him. “Aren’t you going to show me things from my past? I thought that was the purpose of these nights’ adventures—for me to see where I went wrong?”

“That was Carl’s task. I’m showing you how those you were closest to are faring _this_ Christmas,” she explained. “Now shush and pay attention.”

The plates in front of the room’s two corporeal occupants were laden with food. There was a third place setting, food included, but Sherlock neither saw, nor heard, any evidence of his stepfather in the room.

 Jean-Luc Sevigny was a somewhat moony man, an author who would often wander off  apropos of nothing to write down some new idea that had occurred to him. His empty seat was certainly not atypical.

Mycroft and Violet were subdued as they ate. Well, Mycroft was doing his best to _pretend_ to be subdued, and working valiantly to match his mother’s diminished appetite. Her sadness, however, was unfeigned. Sherlock could be oblivious and heoften missed social cues, but he was certain his mother’s downcast features were the result of  her younger son’s absence.

They had not been close since Sherlock was twelve, and most certainly not in recent years. After he had struggled his way back from addiction in his early twenties and had begun to shape a new life and career for himself, Sherlock had fostered an even greater distance. They _had_ made some inroads recently and he had even gone to visit her briefly a month before his fall. But there remained a distance, nonetheless.

He’d stored the memories of his mother kissing his skinned knees as a very young boy and singing happily as he played the violin when he was slightly older in far recesses of his mind, and convinced himself that she had done likewise.

The way she looked tonight didn’t support that conviction of his.

Sherlock began to wonder if his mother and brother were making it a competition to see who could better avoid mentioning him. As if they had run out of small talk, but each didn’t want to be the one to bring up even the name of Violet Sevigny’s missing son.

But evidently the strain was too great for her. She set her fork down with a clatter and sat very briefly with both of her hands clenching and unclenching on the table before she clasped them together in her lap and spoke out loud for the first time.

“I miss him,” she said in a burst.

Mycroft looked up from his plate, gazing at her somewhat inscrutably. “Of course you do, Mummy. That is perfectly reasonable.”

Now she only looked frustrated. “I know _that_. But I had prepared myself to outlive him. Sixteen years ago, I was certain each day would be the one that I received a call from you or from some police officer, telling me that Sherlock was dead. Dead from an overdose or a deal gone wrong or, yes, suicide. I was prepared for that.

“But then he got better. He was better, and I let go of that tension I carried with me everywhere. Only to have him prove me right after all.  So now I’m alive and he isn’t, and I miss him with an ache that I can physically feel in my whole body. God knows, he was a trial and he’d sooner have an unkind observation than a word of affection for me, but that doesn’t stop me from wishing he were here to _make_ some kind of swotty comment. He—he was my baby, and I loved him.”

Mycroft picked up his wine glass, swirling its contents as he listened to his mother’s impassioned speech.  Sherlock marveled at his brother’s blank face, and he felt a sudden twinge of guilt at asking his brother to lie about his continued existence.

“I miss him, too, Mother.”

When Sherlock informed Mycroft of his plans, they had briefly discussed what they (or just Mycroft) would tell their mother. Sherlock’s brother had felt certain that they could trust Violet with such a dire secret.  While he actually concurred, Sherlock elected to leave her in the dark, worrying about the potential threat to her safety.

And so, on an unseasonably cold morning in June, Violet Sevigny had received that call she’d forgotten to wait for. 

Six months later, Sherlock was a witness to her grief, still sharp in spite of time.

Sherlock had never wanted children. He felt no paternalistic urges, didn’t find himself looking in envy at happy couples walking down streets pushing prams. He dreaded being in confined spaces with infants and toddlers, and he found older children just seemed to be perpetually _sticky_ , as if they were forever wandering over from licking a treacle bottle _._  His father had set the example of parenthood, and Sherlock wanted no part in the disappointment, stress, and, yes, the heartbreak.

Watching his mother fighting tears should have reinforced that opinion, but instead, all those long-suppressed memories of his childhood came flooding back into clarity. Violet Holmes had been nurturing and sweet. She’d sung to her boys and read stories to them (until, at the age of seven, Sherlock began requesting books like _A Treatise on Strategy_ , at which point she decided he probably didn’t need her reading in an animated voice to be entertained). 

Sherlock thought about his mother’s comforting embrace when he’d cry, back when he hadn’t shied away from too much human contact. After he was released from his final mandatory rehabilitation, Sherlock consciously decided that in order for him to avoid falling into his old traps, he would need to create a distance between his old life and his new. The price of that had, essentially, been his family.

His relationship with Mycroft had been strained ever since his twelfth Christmas, when he’d dropped the bomb that had set his mother’s life on a new course, but

Violet had worked her hardest to show Sherlock _and_ Mycroft that she did not resent her younger son for the sins of his father. Oh, it had been forced. How could it be anything but? It would be hard for a parent when her child could tell her every secret just by looking at her. But still, she tried.

And watching his mother struggle with this unconditional _love_ , Sherlock could think of no other word to describe the pang in his heart than envy. Not necessarily for a child of his own, that might be going too far, but to feel that type of all-encompassing love for _someone_.

It was terrifying, the realization that he _did_ have the capacity to love someone like that.  It defied logic.  The scene he was looking in on ought to have reinforced every conclusion he’d previously made about sentiment and love.  _Look at how her heart broke because she loved your father. Look at how it continues to shatter because of you, the son she thinks is dead. Is it not better that you don’t have to worry about those distractions?_

But those thoughts seemed only to bounce off this newly seeded idea that had sprouted in Sherlock’s head. Because Violet did not stop living when her first husband proved to be a philanderer. She’d made a new life, but kept room for her children and had found love again with her new husband.

She was still mourning the recent death of her son, but while she was sad and heartbroken, Sherlock now realized he knew exactly how she would fare, even if he were never able to reveal his continued existence to her. She would once again rally the same strength he could only now realize she had and she would be fine.

And that was the crux of the issue, wasn’t it? Sherlock held a bone-deep fear that he hadn’t inherited that strength from his mother. He convinced himself that it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t self-preservation. It was because—he’d sneered—love was a distraction and a frippery.

All because he couldn’t admit that he was _scared._

Unfortunately, those old excuses of his had slowly begun unraveling even before he’d seen his family tonight. The brotherly love he felt for John Watson had begun to debunk his whole argument that he did better alone, that sentiment was a trait of the losing side. But he couldn’t help the feeling watching his mother and his brother was the straw breaking the camel’s back.

But Sherlock was still confused by what that meant for himself.

He and Jennifer listened to Violet and Mycroft change the subject to more mundane topics. As they spoke, Sherlock felt the familiar tickling that accompanied the twinkling lights.

 

* * *

When they next materialized, Sherlock was still feeling raw and out of sorts and that feeling only increased as he found himself standing directly next to his best friend.

John Watson had lost weight and was looking far more careworn than he had when he and Sherlock had first met two years before. But as Sherlock looked on, he could see John was trying his best to be involved in the conversations that were currently flying about the room.

Sherlock had only been in Greg Lestrade’s flat once before, more than a year ago. It was what one might expect for a man getting by on a police detective’s salary: nothing too fancy, but in a building that wasn’t a complete shambles and in quieter neighborhood.

The flat was currently full of activity and voices. Peering around, Sherlock only spotted a few people he knew, or cared to know, at that. Mrs. Hudson was puttering around, carrying plates filled with finger foods, apparently having been recruited or self-appointed as a co-hostess. John and Lestrade were chatting with another of Scotland Yard’s detectives. Lestrade’s sometimes-estranged wife, Margot, was there, as were some of her embarrassingly drunk friends.

But Sherlock was only interested in one particular person, and he craned his neck trying to find her in the melee. He actually admitted to himself that the feeling creeping up on him was anxiousness. There were only so many places she could be in the small flat. Had Lestrade invited her? True, Sherlock had been her only bond to the rest of them, but then, so had he been to John and Lestrade, too, and they were certainly chummy. But Molly might have been overlooked. Sherlock could admit that he was guilty of doing so too many times. But knowing what he now knew of her, this sat even less easily with him.

And then there she was.

The difference between the previous year and this one was marked. Instead of a tight dress, impossible heels, big hair, and dramatic makeup, she wore casual clothes—jeans, a nice jumper, and boots—and nothing silly in her hair. Instead, the thick brown tresses fell loose and unadorned down her back.

She looked different.

She looked… pretty.

Sherlock rarely admitted when he appreciated beauty and aesthetic, and those rare times typically pertained to scenery, not people. But he was hard-pressed to think of any other way to describe Molly Hooper at this moment.

She had wandered out of the flat’s small kitchen, clutching a bottle of cider in her hand, looking for all the world like a person wishing she were somewhere far from there, but trying her best to hide it and appear at her ease.

Unfailingly polite, that was Molly.

His one-sided staring contest with her was broken when he heard John speak for the first time.

“I’m glad to hear that, Greg. How much longer until the official investigation findings are released?”

“I think I’ll hear whether I get my old job back within the next couple of weeks, but I’ve been told that’s just a formality and to feel confident that this will whole thing will go my way.”

John nodded, taking a sip of the wine he was holding before speaking. “Funny, that. I’ve never understood why formal decisions are always delayed affairs when the actual, ‘informal’ decisions are not kept as any kind of secret.”

Chuckling a bit humorlessly, Lestrade replied, “I’ll take it any way I can get it, though. I’d better go see what needs done in the kitchen.” Then, to room at large, “Everyone help yourself to the food and have a seat. We’ll do the white elephant exchange after we’ve all got hernias from too much eating.”

There was a bit of a crush as everyone headed to the dining table, which was now laden with various and sundry dishes. The chatter was indecipherable in the crowd’s convergence, so Sherlock and Jennifer Wilson just stood by the fireplace, waiting for everyone to sit down on the many chairs that had been pulled into the lounge.

While they waited, Sherlock turned to Jennifer, eyeing her.

“You’re much quieter than Carl Powers was. He made a lot of effort to point out the obvious to me.”

Jennifer arched a brow at Sherlock. “Oh, I wouldn’t say it was _that_ obvious to you. Why do you think we’re here?  Sherlock, I think you’re guilty of observing but not seeing.”

“I could point out that you’re bastardizing something I say all the time, and that observing is far more detailed than merely ‘seeing.’”

She gave a small laugh then replied, “Ah, but seeing requires a lot more gut instinct.”

Sherlock would have replied. With something witty but telling, he was _sure_ of it, but the partygoers had seemingly finished loading their plates to groaning proportions and were returning to the sitting area.

John, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson crowded together on a loveseat, clearly wanting to be in close proximity to familiar company. They were far quieter than the other buffoons the Lestrades had invited to their Christmas get-together, which, on the whole was getting louder and rowdier by the second.

They listened politely as one of Margot Lestrade’s friends waxed on obnoxiously about an upcoming package trip to Majorca that she and her ‘girlfriends’ were going to take for New Year’s.

It certainly explained why they all had those jaundiced, orangey, fake tans.

Sherlock stood next to the loveseat, looking at his friends. Molly, who was closest to him, was studiously making sure none of her food items touched each other, something he’d gotten used to in the months of sharing takeaway with her. How someone with her appetite could be so picky about, say, mustard and soy sauce comingling was beyond him.

John and Mrs. Hudson began talking quietly to each other, certainly not excluding Molly, but they were discussing when John might be up to returning to Baker St.

“I think I’m almost ready, Mrs. Hudson. It’s just a bit of a rough start, talking myself back into it.”

“I know, dear. I’m just thinking of you. It might do you good to get away from your sister’s and get back to your own space. And you might find that the memories are more comforting than painful now, don’t you think?”

“Yeah… maybe….” He murmured.

Satisfied that she’d at least said her piece, Mrs. Hudson turned her attention on the loveseat’s other occupant.

“Molly, love, how are you doing? This is the first time I’ve seen in a month. Not since you last dragged John with you to tea.”

This was news to Sherlock, but he didn’t find it surprising that Molly would take it upon herself to be the self-appointed consoler for the other two. As her father had pointed out, she excelled at taking care of other people first. That she was crippled with guilt over the secrets she had to keep on a daily basis didn’t make her attempts to comfort John and Mrs. Hudson any less selfless.

“I’m okay, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sorry I’ve not stopped ‘round. Work has been murder.”

Sherlock couldn’t quell the single bark of laughter that he emitted. It was a terrible joke. Not even remotely funny. He wished Molly could know that he liked it. 

His friends just blinked at her.

She gave a self-deprecating cough and then addressed the Lestrades, who were seated further along the circle of chairs. “This dip is delicious. Are the artichoke hearts fresh or canned?”

This set the couple on a volleying back and forth dissertation of how they made the aforementioned dip. Sherlock was almost certain that he could see a slight glazing over in Molly’s eyes, but she asked leading questions to keep them talking.  He remembered her doing something similar at the Christmas party last year. While she may feel and act awkward, Molly still managed to have something to say to everyone.

Normally, small talk drove him crazy. If Sherlock Holmes found himself in a situation where someone attempted “chat” with him, he usually ended it abruptly, either making up an excuse to leave or sticking his foot in his mouth by replying with something unspeakably rude. Usually both at the same time.

And while he was finding over time that he and Molly had several things in common, she was better than he was on so many levels. She operated on a genuine belief that everyone she encountered had worth, while not having an ounce of ego herself.

Right now, for instance, she was nodding encouragingly as another of Margot Lestrade’s orange fiends began weeping as she laid bare to Molly the troubles she and her husband were having conceiving a child. Sherlock couldn’t even identify how the conversation had started. They were just discussing _artichoke dip_ moments before, and suddenly, Molly was the confidante of some woman whom she’d never met before.

And she was apparently saying the right things in response, because the woman stood from her chair and grabbed Molly up from the loveseat in a bone-crushing hug. Fortunately, John had the presence of mind to grab Molly’s plate before it went flying.

Sherlock would admit that so far this adventure had been a bit emotionally taxing. But he didn’t think it was entirely because of the upheaval that he was so taking to heart the realization that Molly Hooper was just the tiniest bit marvelous.

He felt a bit like a moony-eyed teenager as he watched her. He found himself examining the delicate shell of her ear, watching her fingers as they twiddled with the cuffs of her jumper, admiring the way the Christmas tree’s lights were reflecting as a warm sheen in her hair. Each move she made was slightly enthralling, and he was left with an uncomfortable feeling that he had been laid bare for Molly, too.

Except she couldn’t see him.

Thank God.

As he stood there staring at her, Greg Lestrade got the attention of the room. Everyone had finished eating sometime before, so the room was just filled with quiet conversation until Lestrade spoke.

“I guess it’s time to start our little gift exchange. We got this idea from Margot’s office party earlier this month; hopefully it cut down a little on some of the expense of buying each person you know a gift.

“Right, so we have each of your names on a cards in this hat,” he said, hoisting a fuzzy Santa hat in the air, “I’ll draw out a name one-at-a-time, and when I call you, you can go up to the tree and pick a gift. We’re not going to do any trading or anything until after everything’s been opened, but we’re sure you all put a lot of thought into these things, so there shouldn’t be much need to exchange.”

There were a few drunken giggles from the crowd, but most were too busy looking eagerly at the huge pile of wrapped gift under the tree, eyeing what they would choose if they were to first to be called.

What proceeded was a bit of raucous cattle call. The gifts, for the most part, were of the silly nature with a gift card or certificate tacked on. Liquor was also popular.

John blushingly received a bawdy instruction manual of sorts with twenty quid tucked in its front cover, while Mrs. Hudson got a giant bottle of scotch that had had a thong bikini drawn on it with puff paints.

When Molly’s name was called, she hastily scuttled over to the tree, grabbed the first package she could get her hands on and hurried back to her seat, clearly not relishing what was to come.

The paper came off of her lumpy package easily enough. The small smile she affixed to her face fell off when she saw what she’d unwrapped.

In her hands was a deerstalker hat.

“Oh good!” Crowed the drunkest of Margot’s friend, “I was hoping one of you would get that. I just about _died_ when I found that at the charity shop. Margs told us that you all had to work with the tosser, so I thought it would be a good laugh. There’s a Tesco gift card taped to the inside. Don’t miss that….”

She petered out at the pantomimed neck slashing Margot was aiming at her.

Molly, John, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg Lestrade all sat still, blank-faced. The tips of John’s ears began to flush, a tell that he was losing his temper, and Mrs. Hudson’s hands clenched. But it was Molly who spoke, her eyes narrowing just the slightest, while her voice remained pleasant.

“I beg your pardon. ‘Tosser?’”

The drunk woman began to look a bit uncomfortable at the stares she was receiving from that end of the room. “Well, you know, because it came out that he was a fake. That he made it all up.”

She looked around the room for backup, but everyone had quickly become interested in tidying up torn wrapping papers and admiring their gifts.

“Oh, come on now! No one liked him. I heard he was a real prick. That he kidnapped children and probably murdered some people, all to get his name and face in the newspapers, to come off as some brilliant genius. We’re well shot of the bastard. Taking a flying leap off of the building was probably the best service to the city he ever did.”

“Who wants coffee?” Margot asked loudly, a tinge of desperation coloring her words.

Molly glanced at her before returning her gaze to the other woman, placing a staying hand on John, who was fuming, his whole face now an angry red. She kept her eyes locked on Margot’s friend as she spoke.

“No, please, stay here for a moment, Margot. What I have to say will be quick, but I want everyone to hear it. As you all have now realize, we knew Sherlock Holmes. We worked with him. Two people here lived with him. We _saw_ Sherlock Holmes every day; we spoke to him and we _admired_ him. Not as a picture in a newspaper, not as an exposé article in some rag. We knew the man he was.

“Yes, he was irascible. Yes, he usually lacked the right words for anyone. What he _didn’t_ lack was more intelligence in one corner of his brain than most of use could even fathom in a whole human mind. And, though he might not have even realized it, himself, he _didn’t_ lack a heart. He had a good, kind heart, and we loved him for it.”

The woman was certainly more sober now, but Molly wasn’t finished.

“I’m not going to insult you like you’ve just insulted our friend to us. I’m not going to tell you what to believe. I’m just going to tell you that there are those of us who believe in Sherlock Holmes. Who believe that there was not an ounce of artifice in anything he did.  We believe he _did_ do us good, his memory _will_ do us good, so I say we should be thanking him.”

By the time she finished, Molly was flushed, her eyes sparkling, but not with unshed tears. If he were to use a fanciful description, Sherlock would say her eyes had a fire in them.

He had to amend his previous thought. 

Molly Hooper was more than “just the tiniest bit” marvelous.

Sherlock watched Molly, John, and Mrs. Hudson stand and begin making their excuses and head for the door. Lestrade looked like he was silently begging them with his eyes to take him with them when they left, but he merely walked them to flat’s entrance. They thanked him for a pleasant evening, and Molly apologized for any awkwardness. Lestrade shrugged it off, and helped her into her coat.

He felt Jennifer Wilson’s hand on his arm as the door was closing behind his friends. They left behind an awkward silence. The remaining attendees didn’t look put out to have them gone, but Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to feel anything but a warmth in his chest as he remembered Molly’s words.

Jennifer finally spoke, murmuring, “My time’s up, Sherlock. Let’s get you back to Molly’s.”

Twinkling, tickling lights, and then Sherlock was once again alone, back in the quiet dark of Molly’s flat. He stared at her closed bedroom door for several minutes before tiredness overtook him. He rolled onto his side, pressing his face in the backrest of the sofa and closed his eyes.

He knew no more until he woke to his alarm sounding once more, and his breath misting out in front of him in a frigid air.


	4. Yet to Come

* * *

Sherlock didn’t recognize the man standing in front of him. He quickly flipped through his mental catalogues, trying to place him in one of the many murder cases he’d assisted in solving. Nothing came to him.

The ghost’s face was mature, but lacked the wrinkles of approaching middle age, and his caramel-colored skin was smooth and unblemished. A full head of black hair was unaided by a comb-over or any other sort of follicular subterfuge. If he were to guess, Sherlock would say the man had died in his late twenties or early thirties. He was dressed well enough to hint at some wealth, assuming his post-mortem garb was indicative of such things. He stood only an inch or two shorter than Sherlock, but was of a slightly heavier build. 

From there, Sherlock was finding it was awfully difficult to deduce the lives of spirits. As far as he could tell, they were merely echoes of their former selves, and a lot of the details were lost in the ghostly translation. With Carl Powers and Jennifer Wilson, he’d had the benefit of having _in situ_ information about their deaths. Not so with this mystery specter, and he was finding the blind approach added more trepidation for what was to come. The plunge in the room’s temperature didn’t help.

“I don’t know who you are.”

The ghost looked at him impassively for a moment. “The name is Ronald Adair. You’re right. You don’t know me,” and at Sherlock’s hand moving to his jacket pocket, “No need to Google my name on your mobile; you won’t find anything. Or anything useful, that is.”

“So, your death is unsolved?”

“Not exactly.”

Sherlock wasn’t fond of guessing games, but he peered at Ronald a moment before something whispered in the back of his mind; a murmur of words laying out the pattern established by the past two nights’ events.

“Ah… You’re not dead yet.”

Ronald only watched Sherlock, not bothering to agree or refute his charge’s words. His impassivity only ratcheted up Sherlock’s nerves. In his usual fashion when he was out of his element, he dredged up some self-preservation tactics.

“Listen, Ronald, I know you’re here to show me what’s in store for me in the years to come. I really don’t think that’s necessary. I’ve been given some things to think on, so I’d better get started.  Have a nice night.  Here’s an idea: Go visit your current incarnation and tell yourself to avoid getting murdered.”

Really, he felt quite satisfied with his reasoning and thought he’d presented it compellingly. He contemplated the several birds he’d be killing with one stone if he succeeded.

If Ronald misted off, Sherlock would be free to go look in on Molly again (just to check that she remained undisturbed, that was all—he certainly wasn’t wanting to see her for the sake of _seeing_ her). From there, he could ruminate on whether he was going to make any changes in his life and his relationship with her. And with that final burst of genius, maybe he wouldn’t have to solve some idiot solicitor’s-or-whatever-he-was’ death in the future.

Win, win, win, as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned.

If there was one thing he’d figured out from these strange events, it was that he had no say what these ghosts relentlessly showed him or where they dragged him. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t _try_ to assert some autonomy.

Sadly, Ronald was unmoved by the logic presented to him. He imperiously held out a hand to Sherlock and simply waited.

Briefly drumming his fingers on his thighs, Sherlock looked back at Ronald, debating with himself. Finally, he stood and complied with the silent command. 

* * *

All Sherlock had to do was brush Ronald’s hand with his fingertips. As he did so, he blinked. By the time he opened his eyes again, he found himself in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

Everything about the room was familiar. The furniture was the same. The books in the shelves were unchanged. The room sported its general clutter. The skull even graced its usual attitude and spot on the mantle.

The lone person in the room was more familiar to Sherlock than any other he’d seen so far.

Standing at the far window with a violin poised on his shoulder, looking down on the street, stood Sherlock Holmes.

Looking at his own profile from where he stood, Sherlock was hard-pressed to find many differences in his appearance between his true self and the man he was staring at. A few more lines around his eyes and mouth, perhaps, and some strands of silver in his hair. Beyond that, he looked relatively untouched by time.

Sherlock could only guess when this visit was “set”, so to speak, but it couldn’t be much further in the future from his current time.

The room was unlit, to the point that the blue-grey light coming through the windows was almost blinding. From what Sherlock could see and hear, rain was splashing down outside, creating an air of gloom about the place.

As he wrestled with the fact that he was, essentially, staring at a doppelganger of himself, heavy footsteps stomped up the stairs, and Sherlock was startled when a figure barreled through him and Ronald.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I didn’t know it was possible to affect so much gloom without it being on purpose, but you’ve managed it. I thought Mrs. Hudson was going to ask you to decorate the flat a bit for the holiday? Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you, since it is, in fact, Christmas day?”

Future-Sherlock had turned from the window at John Watson’s arrival, though he didn’t move away from it. He pointed with his violin bow to a forlorn cardboard box of plastic garlands and tangled lights currently shoved between the wall and the end of the sofa.

“She did ask me. Something else came up.”

On that pronouncement, he turned abruptly back to the window and began playing a weeping piece (Chopin, “Nocturne 20 in C Minor”, Sherlock-the-observer noted with surprise—a composition he’d never bothered to learn, classifying it as “overwrought and overly self-indulgent”), all while studiously keeping his back to John.

His friend stared at him, looking a bit helpless, but he didn’t interrupt the music. The less corporeal Sherlock took the time to observe John. He felt a spark of hope for the fact that, clearly, he and his friend were reunited. They were back in their flat, and everything was as it should be.

Surely, this meant that John would forgive him for his deceit and the ensuing silence, however long it had been.

Although, the cool air lingered, and Sherlock was starting to notice things that _weren’t_ in the flat, like John’s laptop. Then there was the fact that John was looking at his friend almost if he were a stranger. Which reminded Sherlock—

“Ronald, when is this?”

The ghost turned slightly from the scene to look at his companion.

“Four years after we left Molly Hooper’s flat, which was ten minutes ago, Current Time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Clearly, Ronald Adair was taking his “Mysterious Spirit Guide” assignment quite seriously.

Movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him from replying. John was making his way further into the room, stopping at Sherlock’s usual armchair. He frowned down at a postcard that had been thrown haphazardly onto the chair’s seat.

The Sherlock at the window must have heard him approaching as he allowed the note he’d been holding to fade gracefully without continuing on with the piece. He continued to gaze out the window as he addressed his friend.

“Did you get one?”

John picked up the card, glancing at it before looking up at Sherlock with a furrowed brow. “Yeah. I did yesterday. Damn near threw Mary into hyperventilation she was so excited. Not even sure why, since she helped make them.”

“What the hell is a ‘Save the Date’ anyway? And a year out, no less? Why not just send an invitation like simple etiquette used to teach us, a month or two in advance?”

“I didn’t realize you were well versed in this kind of protocol, Sherlock,” John said, glancing down at item in his hands, a small smile quirking his lips at whatever he was looking at—it appeared to be a picture of some sort, but of what, Sherlock couldn’t see from where he and Ronald stood.

He continued, “I guess this is the popular way to do it now. Since so few people take a newspaper anymore, this is in lieu of a published engagement announcement. With the added benefit that it ensures whoever you invite has plenty of time to plan on coming.”

“Waste of paper, if you ask me,” Sherlock replied, keeping his concentration on the violin’s tuning pegs, “Why put people through the agony of requiring their attendance at some archaic ceremony that’s statistically bound to be for nothing?”

John squinted at his friend, barely disguising the sarcasm in his voice as he responded, “Oh, I dunno. Maybe something to do with wanting the people you care about to be with you when you pledge yourself to another human being for the rest of your bloody life. People don’t typically start planning their divorces mid-wedding ceremony, Sherlock. It’s a bit more hopeful than all that.”

He slowly walked toward Sherlock, his brow growing even more knotted with confusion. “As for the _why_ of wanting people you care for to be with you, a wedding is usually a pretty definite declaration of love. If you’re proud of the person you love, then it’s not uncommon to want those who are important to you to _know_ how much you love her—because you want them to love her, too.” He drew to a stop when came up beside the man at the window, and waited to continue until that man finally turned to face him. “Sherlock, why do you have this animosity toward something so happy as a wedding?”

It was an older, quieter Sherlock who gazed back at John impassively for a moment before speaking.

“I’ve always felt this way. In spite of the fact that you’ve been married for a year, and quite successfully it seems, I haven’t changed my opinion on marriage as a whole.”

John waved the postcard at his friend, saying, “And in spite of it, you _will_ plan on going to this one, right? It’s important.”

Sherlock hoisted his violin back onto under his chin, looking down the strings as he spoke. “A lot can happen in a year. I’ll wait for the ‘formal invitation to follow.’”

And with that, he picked up where he’d left off on the Chopin piece.

John looked at Sherlock for a long moment before he exhaled deeply, dropping the card in discussion back on the chair and then making his way over to the box of Christmas decorations. He quietly began untangling and hanging them as his friend played his mournful, passionate music.

The two unseen men watched the activity in silence for a while, though Sherlock’s quietness was more agitated than contemplative. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Ronald, the only person I know who’d be inviting me to a wedding for the reasons John mentioned is _John._ ”

The ghost regarded Sherlock, his face betraying nothing. “Is he, really? Because everything you’ve seen recently would point to that _not_ being the full truth.”

“Lestrade’s married, assuming that union’s still intact. Mrs. Hudson, I suppose, but she’s always saying she’s done with marriage.”

Ronald’s expression was an eloquent with what he thought of Sherlock’s purported intelligence.

Sherlock tried again, “Tell me. Whose wedding is that an announcement for?”

He didn’t wait for a response. He skirted around the future incarnations of his friend and himself and looked down at the postcard, which John had set back on the chair.

In big, cheerful lettering across the top were the words, “Save the Date!” and “26 December, 2017” in smaller script beneath it.

The layout was rather simple. The words were arranged around a photograph of a couple surrounded by autumn foliage. The man was giving a piggyback ride to a small woman. He was smiling broadly as he glanced over his shoulder at her. She had her head thrown back in laughter. 

Beneath their feet, in the same, swirly font as the words above, were their names.

_Jonathon Whitaker and Molly Hooper._

Sherlock stared unblinking at the postcard. He couldn’t understand. He forgot about the music still being played by his future self. He didn’t notice John yelling at him because that same future self had removed several of the miniature bulbs from the strings of fairy lights for some reason or other.

All noises sounded like they were coming from underwater, until Ronald cleared his throat right next to Sherlock’s ear.  He snapped out of his stupor with a few, disoriented blinks.

“Sherlock,” Ronald murmured to him, “Come with me.”

Sherlock barely touched his hand to Ronald’s and they left Baker Street far behind. 

* * *

The room was one of those hotel affairs that were classified as “multipurpose”.  Today, it was decorated cheerfully with Christmas trees, lights and vases filled with sprays of red and white flowers throughout the room. Fifty or so chairs had been arranged in two groups, leaving an aisle up the center.

People were filing into the room, chatting cheerfully with each other as they entered. The general air was one of excitement.  Sherlock overheard one elderly woman saying to another, “A Christmas wedding! I’ve been looking forward to this all year.”

Of course. The setup of the room, plus the lack of a casket or urn at the front (not to mention the wholly un-funereal atmosphere), hinted what was in store. If Ronald had asked Sherlock to guess where they were going after they left Baker Street, he wouldn’t have even had to pause before he named this impending scene.

But he had hoped he’d be wrong.

Sherlock absently rubbed at an inexplicable ache in his chest as he looked at the happy faces of the guests. He recognized all of those who were sitting on the left set of chairs, but none of those sitting on the groom’s side.

But then, he’d never heard of Jonathon Whitaker until five minutes ago.

As if he’d read Sherlock’s mind, Ronald began explaining.

“She met him five years prior to this day at the annual St. Bart’s holiday party. He’d become a widower three years before that. He’s an orthopedic surgeon with the hospital, considered excellent at his job both for his surgical ability as well as his bedside manner.

“He tried several times over the next couple of days to convince her to agree to go on a date with him, but she initially refused. She had a dead man living with her whose secret she was fiercely guarding. Not only that, but she was also trying to talk herself out of any heartbreak at that dead man’s hands.

“She was reluctant to strike up a relationship with Jack because she didn’t think it would be fair to him to have her pining for someone else who clearly felt nothing romantic for her, let alone someone who was ostensibly just a memory.  Finally, though, that dead man said yet another unkind thing, and she decided her real life needed to begin, and she agreed to have coffee with the kind surgeon. She loyally kept the dead man’s secret until the end, but in the meantime, she slowly found her way into love with Jonathon Whitaker.”

Sherlock licked his dry lips as he listened to Ronald Adair’s words, remembering how he’d barely registered her melancholy return to her flat after that party. If memory served, he may have actually asked her to run some errands for him before she’d fully come through the front door.  He’d started to expect the feelings of shame that he’d experienced so often in the last three nights, but this time that feeling was compounded by that new, sudden ache under his sternum.

He looked around the room again in time to see John and his older self walking through the floor. John was looking rather cheerful, tapping the edge of his wedding program against his palm as he and his far less enthusiastic companion took in the scene they’d just joined.

Mrs. Hudson hailed them over to where she’d saved a row of seats. They shuffled in and each took a chair. Sherlock noticed that his future self purposefully situated himself on the outer-most spot, where he promptly sat and stared straight ahead. Sherlock walked the perimeter of the seating area to look down on himself. He didn’t think he was imagining Future-Sherlock’s rather ashy complexion or the reflexive way he was keeping his hands fisted in the material of his trouser legs.

More telling than anything else, however, was how very quiet he was being. Though he was known for his habit of not speaking for days, in a situation like this, he’d normally be spouting off any number of rude observations about the room, the decorations, the location, and, most of all, the guests.

And the spirit form of Sherlock was not the only one to notice this.

Greg Lestrade leaned forward in his seat from the row behind his friends, clapping hands on his and John’s shoulders.

“Happy Christmas, boys! I’m glad you made it. How _did_ you make it, by the way? Up until now I wasn’t convinced John’d manage to drag you along, Sherlock. Although, from the way you’re acting, you aren’t thrilled to be here. Buck up! This should be a fun party for our Molly!”

John shifted around in his seat to exchange a firm handshake with Lestrade, seemingly unbothered by the stony silence of the man to his left. “Happy Christmas, Greg! I’m looking forward to this. A lot in part because maybe my own wife will regain some of the sanity she’s lost in the planning. I don’t remember her being this enthusiastic for our own wedding. Maybe it’s because we didn’t have to budge up the money for this one.”

Lestrade and John continued to discuss the planning that had gone into what was hopefully going to be an elegant, low-key wedding. Apparently, it had been relatively painless, but John’s wife, Mary, had decided to throw her not-inconsiderable organizing skills into it. Molly, who was nothing if not easy-going, had gladly accepted the help.

Meanwhile, Sherlock’s future self remained completely silent, the only sign that he was listening to his friends’ words was his ever-tightening clenched hands.

Lestrade, who seemed to be growing a bit concerned by his reticence, jostled him again. “It’ll be over before you know it, Holmes. These ceremonies usually only last fifteen to twenty minutes. Then we can go have drinks and cake. Always a winning idea, in my book.”

Future Sherlock spoke for the first time. Kind of. “Oh, boy,” he replied tonelessly.

With that, he pulled out is mobile and began studiously reading something on its screen. Lestrade and John exchanged a glance.

“Molly was the one who finally convinced him to come. Not sure how she did it, but she did change his mind. Still, I nearly had to cuff him to the hold bar in the taxi on the way over here. Not sure why he’s quite this reluctant. As you said, it’ll be quick and painless.”

Just then, a man whom Sherlock had only seen in that one, horrible, lovely picture came into the room with his best man. He grinned at everyone as they went and stood at the top of the aisle, taking time to shake hands with the officiate, who’d only just arrived herself.

A quiet settled over the room as soft music started to play. Everyone stood and shifted to get a view of the door and the aisle.

And then there she was.

Sherlock spared a quick glance at her attendant, who could only be John’s wife, Mary. She was lovely, but he didn’t feel he had the time or the breath to study her too closely.

He could only look at Molly.

She was beautiful.

She wore a snowy, white, satin dress. It was rather simple, really, lacking any frills—no lace or poofs of fabric to be seen. It fell from her bodice to the ground, and Sherlock noticed the way the material warmly caught the light with each step she took. 

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, noting the slight blush that was suffusing her cheeks.

And she only had eyes for the man at the end of the aisle.

Sherlock rubbed again at that sharp ache in his chest, frowning at it but otherwise ignoring it.

Molly and Mary finally reached the top of the aisle. The bride passed off her small bouquet to her friend and turned to her groom. They joined hands and grinned at each other as the officiate began to speak.

It was the standard “Dearly beloved” spiel that hadn’t changed much over the centuries. But Sherlock couldn’t have remembered what she was saying if he’d been held at gunpoint, he was so wrapped up in staring at the bride.

He did spare a gland at his future self, who seemed to be suffering a similar problem.

Then, it came time for the vows. The couple had elected not to write their own, so that portion of the ceremony seemed to be going without remark.

Until it came time for Molly’s. She was midway through promising ‘to have and to hold’ Jack, when there was a quiet commotion in the congregation.  Everyone turned to identify the cause of the disturbance.

Sherlock was surprised to find his future self standing quickly. When that Sherlock felt the gazes of everyone on him, particularly that of the bride’s, he blanched.

“Forgive me… I’m feeling… if you’ll excuse me.” And with that, he rushed from the room.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate to follow him out. He, himself, had watched the ceremony with helpless dread, and he was only glad he had reason to leave it.

The other Sherlock was bracing himself against a wall by the door, breathing deeply in and out through his nose, repeatedly rubbing a hand over his chest.

He stayed like that for several more minutes, until applause filtered out from the room in which the ceremony was being held. At the sound of cheerful clapping and hoots and hollers, his head dropped forward, and he suddenly stilled.

Not long after, the door to the room opened and John stepped out, concern evident in his brow.

“Sherlock, what’s going on? Are you all right?”

“No, I don’t… I don’t think I am, John.”

His friend looked startled to receive an honest answer with so little prompting, but quickly recovered himself. “What’s the matter? Do I need to call for help?”

The detective looked truly distraught, but he shook his head. “I’m breathing fine. My pulse seems to be normal. I just… couldn’t stay in there. I have this ache, right here,” he indicated the left area of his chest, “I’ve noticed it on and off, but it’s been getting worse in the last few days. When Molly came to talk to me last night, I was actually worried I was suffering from an embolism or something. But I feel absolutely fine otherwise. I just feel it when… when I look at Molly. It’s more than I can bear. I had to get out of there. What is this?”

John looked at his friend with an expression of dawning realization. His own head bowed forward as the pieces all seemingly fell into place. Dropping against the wall next to Sherlock, he sighed before he turned his head to him.

“Do you want my professional opinion? I think I know what you’re suffering from.”

A bit of the old Sherlock came through, enough that he looked annoyed that his friend was pussyfooting around just _saying_ what it was.

“Yes, tell me.”

“Sherlock, all signs point to a broken heart.”

Both Sherlocks stared at John.

“Broken hearts are a figure of speech, John. And that is most certainly not my problem.”

John’s face didn’t register any shock at Sherlock’s vehement denial. "Sherlock, where do you think the term ‘heartbreak’ comes from? It’s a very physiological response to emotional distress. Your cortisol levels are spiking, which makes your muscles tense up. It’s diverting all that blood flow away from your chest and stomach. You probably feel a bit nauseous, too, yeah? Same reason.”

The distressed man stared at his friend, though his gaze was probably more fixed on something in his head, maybe sorting all of this data in a way for them to make sense. Finally, he blinked and was once again focused on John Watson.

“You’ve just proven so many of my earlier points, John. A _physiological_ response. Love: Nothing but a ridiculous cocktail of dopamine, norepinephrine,  and—most damning of all—oxytocin. People choose to dress it up with pretty hearts and flowers. But in the end, humans are just a mishmash of dictating hormones and firing neuron impulses. No thanks, I never have been and I never will be ‘love’s’ pawn.”

John drew back, surprise etched on his face. “That’s what you think, is it? Then tell me, Oh Wise One, why _are_ you out here instead of back in there, watching Molly hold and kiss her new husband? Why aren’t you in there spouting off your theories about love and its foolishness to her?”

Sherlock jerked his head to face forward again and it took him awhile to reply. “I’m not an idiot. I recognize that this would not be an appropriate time. She can have her day.”

This didn’t appear to be a comfort to John.

“Oh, how good of you. And what of me? And Mary? We’re newly-wed, too.  So this is what you think of us? Pawns in a biological game of chess?”

Sherlock was busy rubbing that same spot on his chest, listening to the sounds of merriment in the room beyond them, but he still, of course, had something damning to say. “Pawn was not the right word. What you are, John, is human. You cannot be blamed for falling prey to these evolutionary impulses. I am just saying that you can’t be surprised if those hormones that are controlling you recede and you find yourself stuck in a legal contract with a woman you can’t stand. And then you’re left with that physiological discomfort that is touted as ‘heartbreak.’ But I’ll leave you to it and hope, for your sake, that you are one of the few success stories.”

Standing by hallway’s opposite wall, Sherlock and Ronald watched the two men speak, and Sherlock felt himself honing in with a hyper-focus on John’s next words, hoping his friend would offer some sort of absolution, not just for the man he was speaking directly to, but also to his past self.

He remembered all too clearly how often he’d said similar things to John rather than offering his support to his friend. His friend who’d saved his life as surely has Sherlock had saved John’s.

John Watson did not choose to ignore that remark. He did not choose to overlook just one more social gaffe on his friend’s part. He drew up his all of his military bearing, standing straight, face expressionless. “A woman I can’t stand…. So, that’s what you think of us.  I’ll have you know that I admire Mary so much more than I can say. So much more than I ever admired you, before you found even more stores of bitterness in that mind palace of yours.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, possibly to protest, but John bowled him over.

“Mary’s smart. She’s brave and she’s kind. And above everything else that I am finding makes her better than you, is the fact that we know—we _know_ —that we will love each other with our dying breaths, whenever those are. Even though she and I have both seen awful things in our lives, we haven’t let it kill our hope.

“So, you know what? This is it. Maybe this will be easier, because you came back to life a changed man, and not for the better, Sherlock. Something happened to fill you with antipathy, or, maybe even worse, apathy. Whatever it was, I am done with it. You’ve tried to poison everything I believe in with your bad opinion for the last time. You’re hurting and confused right now, but you’ve just driven away the one person who was trying to give you some comfort during a hard time.”

John turned abruptly and walked back to the door, pausing to turn back to the man he was leaving behind.

“I think you should go, Sherlock. I’ll make your excuses, but I don’t want you saying anything that could ruin the day for any of those people in there whose happiness _used_ to be important to you.

Sherlock’s future self looked at John Watson, then turned and walked down the hallway, alone.

Laughter from the room increased in volume as Mary ducked through its doors, going to her husband, who was still standing at the door. As it swung back shut, Sherlock glanced into the room in time to see the beaming bride and groom lean in and kiss each other sweetly, to the cheers of everyone in the around them.

He barely felt Ronald’s hand taking his.

* * *

People who have experienced near-death events have often reported seeing strange things in those moments out of time between living and dying.

Sherlock wasn’t certain he was dying, but he was certain he seeing his whole life flash before his eyes.  And not just his life up to his current thirty-five years of age.

The images he saw weren’t like a slideshow; nor were they like those horrid, overly sentimental film montages he so loved to mock to anyone who would listen.  Instead, they felt like second-long glimpses that inexplicably had chapters’-worth of context without Ronald saying one word.

He saw Molly, smiling at him kindly when he walked into morgue. He was about to tell her about a case whose conclusion he thought she’d be interested to hear. But then the fluorescent lighting caught just so on her wedding band, and he changed his mind, and instead nodded curtly and walked silently over to a microscope. He was alone.

He saw John Watson and his wife smiling at each other as they walked hand-in-hand down a rainy, dirt road. They were walking to the new house they’d bought in the country, with the intent of starting a family.

He saw himself, standing at his window, playing that same Chopin nocturne, over and over again. He was alone.

He saw Greg and Margot Lestrade sitting together on their sofa, his arm across her shoulders as they watched some awful reality show. They’d been going to a councilor for several years and were easing into contentment with each other.

He saw himself, standing over a grave that bore his mother’s name. He was alone.

He saw Jack Whitaker putting a squalling baby into a sweaty, exhausted Molly’s outstretched arms as she wept and laughed at the same time. They named her Catherine.

He saw himself, standing against a wall. He was at some party the Lestrades were throwing. He’d gone when he thought the quiet of his flat would drive him insane. But as he watched all the people he used to _know_ , he realized he’d never felt so alone.

He saw John, weeping as his wife’s ashes were handed to him in a box. But when he left the room, so many of his friends and family were waiting for him, waiting to embrace him.

He saw himself, looking at a cache of cocaine, debating, debating. He was alone.

He saw Molly hugging her teenaged daughter as they helped her move into her university housing. Catherine was eighteen, and she wanted to study medicine.

He saw himself, consulting on a murder case, but he wasn’t finding the same satisfaction he used to with his old successes. And, yes, he was alone.

On and on these glimpses came. He saw each of his friends as they carried out their full lives.

He saw each of their deaths, leaving him feeling more and more torn apart. But with each death, he saw how they each were surrounded by people who would miss them. Who would always love them.

Finally, he saw himself, old, lying on a hospital bed in an empty ward. He watched the frail, old man he was to become. He watched himself whispering, over and over again, “Molly. Molly. Molly.”

He watched his wheezing breaths slow and diminish and finally stop.

He was alone.

And then the images stopped coming. Sherlock was still standing in that silent, empty hospital ward, looking down on his own body.

His chest and eyes burned as he whipped back around to face Ronald Adair. “What is the reason of showing me this? Is it to torture me for everything I could have done but didn’t? Is it to show me everything I’ll eventually lose? Or can I change this? Because, please believe me, if I can, I will.”

Ronald remained silent, merely watching Sherlock. 

“Please. Tell me. Am I damned to this life you’ve shown me?”

Silence.

“I have lived my whole life being afraid of love. Being afraid of weakness. Being afraid of loss. But I want to try to learn now not to be afraid. I want to learn to be everything I thought I couldn’t be. Please. Please. Tell me. Can this be changed?

So desperate was Sherlock to get an answer from the silent specter, he actually reached for the man’s lapels, hoping to shake an answer from him.

Instead, when he gripped the material, his forward moment carried him through Ronald Adair’s ghost, and then he was falling.

And when he finally stopped, he was lying on Molly Hooper’s settee in her tiny sitting room.

A watery, wintry daylight was streaming in the window, illuminating lazy dust motes in the air. Molly’s cat was sitting on the table in front of the sofa, regarding Sherlock with a look of mingled disgust and curiosity.

Sherlock dove for his phone, which was perched precariously on the table’s edge. Pulling up the lock screen, he stared in a wonder as he realized that it was Christmas Day. The strange events he had been witness to had happened all in one night.

Of course they had. Metaphysical apparitions could do whatever they liked.

Sherlock looked around the cozy flat, realizing that it and its inhabitants were very dear to him, and he couldn’t think of another place he’d rather be on a cold, Christmas morning. A snowy, cold, Christmas morning, if the fluffy white drifts on the building across the street were anything to go by.

He jumped up from the couch and ran to the window. Sure enough, several inches of snow now blanketed the street with very few tire tracks marring the pristine white. He found himself smiling as he remembered the snowball fights he used to get into with his brother when they were young. In fact, he hoped he saw Mycroft sometime before the snow melted off. He might enjoy putting a handful of snow down the back of his brother’s shirt when they met.

His scheming was interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping on the floor in the kitchen.

Suddenly, Sherlock was overcome with nerves. He knew what he needed to do. He just hoped he could say what needed to be said in a tactful way and not exacerbate any tension that he’d managed to create in his relationship with Molly over the years.

But he reminded himself that this was possibly the most important wrong that needed righting. Taking time to brush some of the wrinkles from his clothes, he slowly walked into the kitchen.

Molly stood at the sink, staring out of her window at the fat flakes of snow still falling from the sky.

If Sherlock had felt any doubt over what he had seen and learned the night before, his misgivings would have been allayed when he saw Molly wearing that same, pretty jumper and jeans that she’d worn to the Lestrades’ party during his time with Jennifer Wilson’s ghost.

Sherlock felt like that scene had happened years ago, and only five minutes before, all at once.

Molly must have heard Sherlock ease his way into the kitchen, because she turned her head slightly and said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “Good morning, Sherlock.”

Sherlock Holmes had never had anything so bourgeois as an anxiety dream where he found himself standing naked in front of his classmates. But he suddenly felt he must know what those dreams felt like. He shifted from one foot to another, before clearing his throat and speaking.

“Good morning, Molly.”

She was clearly trying to set aside her hurt feelings from the night before, but failing. She ducked her head and returned her gaze to the window, and Sherlock watched her start fiddling with her cuffs. He smiled as he remembered her doing the same at the Lestrades.

He only felt more certain that what he was doing was right.

He slowly approached her, watching with a clinical eye at how she remained oblivious at first, but then started to tense the closer he got. It was only when he stopped no more than a foot behind her, but didn’t do anything else, that she relaxed.

Sherlock had no clue what he was doing. He only hoped he wasn’t making everything worse. Unsure of how to proceed, he stood still, watching the winter light catching Molly’s hair, bringing out the different colors of each strand. Without even realizing he was doing it, Sherlock reach forward and lifted a lock of her hair. He began curling it around his finger over and over, marveling at its softness.

When Molly became aware of what he was doing, she stilled. He could hardly even see her chest rising and falling with each breath.

As if she was afraid she would startle him away, she whispered softly, hardly more than an exhale. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

He shuffled several inches closer, leaning down and nuzzling the back of her head, smelling the sweet scent of her shampoo.

He’d studiously avoided any intentional contact for most of his life, and had not had any to speak of since his fall six months before. Breaking that fast, he gloried in her proximity. He felt like he would never tire of even this small contact, where just his fingers and his nose had any connection with Molly Hooper.

She abruptly turned toward him, startled in spite of herself at just how close he actually was. He still hadn’t spoken since his initial greeting, so she gazed searchingly into his eyes.

Finally, he sent up a small prayer to any deities or ghosts who might be listening, and began speaking.

“Molly, I owe you an apology.”

She deflated a little, but smiled up at him nonetheless. “For last night? It’s alright. I know you were just distracted. I’m used to it by now.”

“The fact that you have to be used it is exactly what I’m apologizing for. Not just what I said last night, although I am sorry for that. I’m sorry for every time I’ve made you cry or made you unhappy. Which I have come to realize is more often than not.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, but he quickly shook his head and continued. “It’s occurred to me in the past that I really haven’t done anything to earn or deserve your affection. But I had a lot of time to think about you last night, Molly, and think about the fact that you give and give, but never expect anything in return.

“And it shouldn’t be that way.  You deserve someone who will love you and spend every day glorying in the fact that he has your heart. Your father knew that you deserve someone who can recognize just how extraordinary you really are, and that anyone who didn’t see that was just a waste of your time.”

He tentatively reach forward and lifted her right hand. He admired her thin fingers as he gathered his resolve once more.

“I will be the first to admit that I have done enough damage in the years that we’ve known each other that you should, by all rights, be running screaming from me. Instead, all you’ve done is work more assiduously to make sure I know that I’m in your heart.”

Molly was staring at him as he spoke, her expression growing more and more alarmed. “Sherlock. What happened? Were you attacked last night? I think I remember hearing you racing around at one point. You should have told me!”

She began running her fingers through his hair, trying to identify some subdural hematoma or something equally dire. It actually felt rather nice, but he figured he should reassure her that he was unharmed. “No, no, I’m fine. Like I said, I just had time to think. About you. About me. And everything.”

“Everything?” she asked, looking a little mystified at this strange, Sherlock-shaped man standing before her.

“Yes. Everything. Prior to last night, I’d found myself _thinking_ about you a lot. And then, after I upset you for the umpteenth time twelve hours ago, all I could do was think about you even more, and what I was doing wrong.”

He took a deep breath.

“So here is what I bring to the table: I’ve spent my whole life avoiding any sort of relationship that might become a dependency. I have an addictive personality. I figured one less aspect of temptation would keep me alive, would be what separated me from the mortals who spent their daily lives fighting because of love.

“But I look at you, and I know that that isn’t what’s kept me alive. _You’ve_ kept me alive. Literally. So I have decided that there is little difference between you physically hiding me and caring for me and the care you give me by loving me, and working your hardest to make me happy.”

Sherlock tentatively put his hands, which were feeling a bit clammy, on Molly’s hips, but kept his touch light.

“So what I’m asking you, Molly Hooper, is for you to give me the chance to care for and love you for a change. I can promise you that there will be some major setbacks and probably some false starts. I am entering this completely blind. Or blind to everything other than the fact that I want to be someone who deserves your heart.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.

“I’ll still be an oblivious idiot a lot of the time. I’ll probably never say the right things. If you are beside me, I think I’ll have even more fervor to bring down Moriarty’s network, but it will still be something that grabs my attention at inopportune moments. And once that is done and I am able to come back from the dead, I don’t see that aspect of my personality changing much. But I am hoping that you’ll take me in spite of it.”

Molly remained quiet as he finished speaking, and he felt a flicker of unease in his belly.  He leaned back slightly so that he could see the whole of her face.

Her eyes were shut and silent tears were streaming down her face.

He ineffectually wiped them away with his fingers, only for more to fall in their place. “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. If you want me to go away, I ca—“

He was cut off by Molly emitting a watery laugh as she flung her arms around his neck, hoisting herself up onto her sock-clad toes, and pressing her mouth against his.

When Sherlock came back to himself, he found he’d lifted Molly up onto her counter. His arms were banded almost too tightly around her torso, and she in turn had her legs around his waist, her feet hooking behind his thighs.

He grabbed her hand again and lifted it, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist as he looked into her eyes. She grinned goofily back at him, and he couldn’t help but return with a stupid smile of his own.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” she whispered.

“Happy Christmas, my sweet Molly.”

* * *

Sherlock was better than his word. Yes, he would sometimes wander off mid-sentence or mid-intimate interlude with some idea that had struck him. But where he previously would have said he didn’t possess a fanciful or romantic bone in his body, he thought he did alright for himself.

Though he did sometimes slip up and say hurtful things, all in his hyper-honesty, he was quicker to realize his mistakes and sincerely apologized without prodding.

Sherlock Holmes could never explain what exactly happened that night, and he never tried to describe the impetus for his Great Change to Molly. But not long after he found his way into her arms, she asked him how he’d known what her father had wanted for her, and he had simply replied, “Any man who raised someone like you would _only_ want that for his daughter.”

It seemed to satisfy her.

When he was able to return to public life, Sherlock endeavored to live his life with the same spirit of love and care for all of his friends that he did for Molly.

It was said of him that he finally achieved what his friend, Greg Lestrade, had hoped for him: Not only was he a great man, but he was also a good one.

And while his wit and sarcasm and brain were still razor sharp, Sherlock was more willing to forgive people for laughing at the newer, sentimental side he exhibited for his lover and his friends.  For his own heart laughed at how much happier he was.

Sherlock never saw James Moriarty (and good riddance to him) or any of the other three spirits again. But every Christmas, he paused to think of the strange events that had led him to where he was; which was a far happier and less lonely place than he could have ever imagined.

And though it is said often enough, to all of us let us remember the words of Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade:

“Meretricious.”  
“And a happy New Year!”

* * *

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> I originally published this over on FF.net in December of 2012. Just moving it over here for archiving.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sherlock and A Christmas Carol are the creations and properties of others. I merely borrowed them for some festive fun.


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